O Lydia, thou, (if wayward Tongues should
blame
My Life, and blot a harmless Maiden's Name)
Tell them if e'er I found a ftraggling Ewe,
Altho' the Owner's Name I hardly knew;
I fed it kindly with my Father's Hay,
And gave it Shelter at the clofing Day:
I never ftole young Pigeons from their Dams,
Nor from their Pasture drove my Neighbours
Lambs:
Nor fet my Dog to hunt their Flocks away,
That mine might graze upon the vacant Lay.
When Phillida by dancing won the Prize,
Or Colin prais'd young Mariana's Eyes;
When Damon wedded Urs'la of the Grange,
My Cheek with Envy ne'er was feen to change:
Whene'er I saw Aminda cross the Plain,
Or walk the Forest with her darling Swain,
I never whisper'd to a Stander-by,
But hated Scandal, and abhorr'd a Lye.
On Sundays I (as Sifter Sue can tell)
Was always ready for the Sermon-Bell:
I honour'd both the Teacher and the Day;
Nor us'd to giggle when he bid me pray :
Then fure for me there's fomething good in store,
When Colinetta fhall be seen no more.
When I am gone, I leave to Sister Sue My Gown of Jersey, and my Aprons blue. My ftudded Sheep-hook Phillida may take, Likewife my Hay-fork and my hazle Rake:
My hoarded Apples and my Winter Pears
Be thine, O Lydia, to reward thy Cares.
These Nuts that late were pluck'd from yonder
Tree,
And this Straw-basket, I bequeath to thee:
That Basket did thefe dying Fingers weave:
My boxen Flute to Corydon I leave,
So fhall it charm the lift'ning Nymphs around,
For none like him can make it sweetly found.
In our Churchyard there grows a spreading
Whofe dark green Leaves diftil a baneful Dew: Be thofe fad Branches o'er my Grave reclin❜d,
And let these Words be graven on the Rind : "Mark, gentle Reader, Underneath this
"Thou too, perhaps, e'ermanyWeeks be o'er, "Like Colinetta, fhalt be feen no more."
Clos'd her pale Lips and stopp'd her rofy Breath. Her finking Eye-balls took their long Adieu, And with a Sigh her harmless Spirit flew.
The MISERABLE GLUTTON; or, the Pleafures of Senfe, dependent on Virtue.
S Carlos gay, a youthful Sage,
Who reads of Men the living Page,
And jocund smiles, and jefts, and fings,
And laughs at Knaves, and pities Kings,
At White's one Winter's Evening sat,
And Morals mixt with various Chat,
More bold than wife, a thoughtless Rake
Took Snuff, and thus elated spake:
Pox take the Whims of canting Knaves,
Whofe fpecious Talk wou'd make us Slaves—
Themselves (in public fomething fhy)
Love fenfual Joys as well as I:
I, who the Mask have thrown afide,
And all their threaten'd Pains defy'd,
Afk but the thrilling Joys of Senfe,
To others drop the vain Pretence.
He ceas'd, and rofe from where he fat,
Took Snuff again, and cock'd his Hat.
Our Friend, who fcorn'd to fear or flatter,
Cry'd, Sir, you quite mistake the Matter;
You feem'd to fay (tho' much to blame)
Excefs and Pleafure is the fame;
When 'tis an eafy Tafk to show
They differ wide as Friend and Foe.
The first alone our Cenfure draws,
The last inlifts in Virtue's Caufe ;
Not fenfual Blifs can Vice bestow,
Tho' this the meaneft known below.
But, if to please you I fhou'd own
The Joys of Senfe are Joys alone;
What if I prove it full and plain
'That Virtue these will surest gain?
"I'd then (reply'd the Rake, and swore)
"Be ftrictly virtuous evermore"-
The Joys of Tafte they both agree
The Preacher's present Theme should be.
This fix'd-The gay Philofopher began
A Tale to please and mend the Man.
Some threefcore Years ago, or more,
An Heir poffefs'd a Mifer's Store,
Who, living, ne'er beftow'd one Doit
To teach his Child to think aright:
He learnt to spell, as fome have said,
But none pretend he ever read.
This Dunce (I'm loth to tell ye) too,
Of Pleasure, Sir, thought juft like you:
Rejoic'd to find his Father dead,
'Till then on thrifty Viands fed;
Three Cooks he hires, whofe dext'rous Skill
Could teach the Staff of Life to kill.
K
They drefs'd him Food a thousand Ways,
And much their Pay, and much their Praise.
Unnumber'd Dishes crown'd his Board,
With ev'ry nameless Kickshaw ftor❜d.
He eats- and longs to eat again,
But fighs for Appetite in vain :
From Morn to Night, or Meat or Drink,
Perpetual fill'd up ev'ry Chink-
Sure this is Blifs, he ftill believes
In that, which still his Hope deceives.
He relish'd nothing— fickly grew,
Yet longs to taste of fomething new.--
It chanc'd in this difaftrous Cafe,
One Morn betimes he join'd the Chace;
Far o'er the diftant Lawns they fly,
And foon more distant Lawns are nigh.
A Foreft next before 'em lay,
He left behind, mistook his Way;
Alone he long bewilder'd rode,
And found a Peafant's poor Abode.
But Fafting kept from Six to Four,
Felt Hunger, long unfelt before-
The friendly Swain this Want supply'd,
And Joan fome Eggs and Bacon fry'd.
Not dainty now, the 'Squire in Haste
Fell to, and prais'd their fav'ry Tafte.
Nay, fwore his Meal had fuch a Goût
He ne'er in Tarts and Oglio's knew.
Rejoic'd to think he'd found a Dish,
Which crown'd his long unanswer'd Wish,
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